


Cassiopeia

by ThatAnnoyingBella



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Homophobic Language, Loneliness, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatAnnoyingBella/pseuds/ThatAnnoyingBella
Summary: Smith stays home that night.





	Cassiopeia

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from. It was not intended to become this, I just let my fingers do their thing and when I looked up, I'd written this. Call it a system cleanse, either way, trigger warning. It's pretty depressing.  
> Cassiopeia is a constellation. It's named after a beautiful woman from mythology. I wanted to bring it in somewhere, but in any case, I just feel that it had a role in this drabble.
> 
> Also, self deprecating homophobic remark. Just a little ;)

It was Friday. Usually such a lively night, one where Smith would go out and drink and drink and keep drinking. He’d laugh, and he’d dance, maybe flirt with some girl or some guy - didn’t matter which - but always fumble and make excuses when they wanted a hookup. But Smith wasn’t feeling it tonight.

Instead, he sat on the ugly, sagging brown couch in his apartment, a sigh hovering behind his chapped lips. He felt like everything was beyond him now, that he was drifting away from his old self, no matter how tightly he tried to hold on to him. Was this what getting old felt like? Like loosing a grip on reality, like the energy and care slipping through his fingers like water?

Smith couldn’t be sure what was real an what wasn’t any more. That look Ross gave him, a look of utter annoyance and the wearing down of patience; Were those people really laughing at him? Did anyone even give a shit about the stupid, tall idiot who was slowly making his lips bleed by chewing on them, who was shaking, eyes rolling about the pizza strewn living room? Smith doubted anyone missed him. His friends would be out partying, still feeling young and fresh and carefree, while he sat here, at home, wallowing in self pity like a pathetic teenager.

Smith thought that he hated hugs, but now there’s a despair rising up his throat like bile and all he wants is for someone to wrap their arms around him, to feel the weight and heat and aliveness of a human being. He’s so scared of intimacy, of not knowing what to do, that he’s isolated himself, taught everyone around him to not ask questions, to not touch him or comfort him and now he’s feeling it.

What he would do to just press his ear against a chest, to hear a heartbeat and feel a breath. He feels like he’s floating, he just wants to know that he’s alive. God, is he even alive? Smith pinches himself. There is a moment of clarity, then a furious anger. Why is he such a fucking pussy?

Smith raises a fist, presses it against his temple, and grits his teeth, before slamming it down on his thigh. He thinks about what a stupid idiot he is, about how much of a fuck up he is. All vile jokes and vulgar language and no fucking brain. He punches his leg again, feeling tears welling up. 

Punch.  
Idiot!

Punch.  
Fag!

Punch.  
Punch.  
Punch.  
Punch.

Smith is sobbing now, and his arm is too weak to hurt him. He cries, slipping off the couch onto the floor. Who would want someone so broken?

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think. I'm interested in writing a piece with the intention of creating false nostalgia, so be sure to look for that, it'll be a real challenge and criticism will be important.  
> Thanks!


End file.
